I just finished reading Passing by Nella Larsen again. Honestly, this should be required reading for every Black woman, but there I go preaching about books again.

Anyway, after I closed the book, I found myself doing what I always do after reading something that refuses to leave me alone. I started researching, listening to more books on the topic, and digging through other people’s interpretations, hoping someone had found words for what I was feeling.

One word kept surfacing.

Privilege.

And when I tell you I have wrestled with that word for years, I mean years.

Maybe it’s because the conversation around privilege has become so loud that we’ve stopped listening to it. Somewhere along the way it became a word people either weaponize or immediately become defensive about. If someone tells you that you’re privileged, it almost sounds like an accusation, as though your life has been too easy to have an opinion. On the other hand, if someone insists they have no privilege at all, they’re usually overlooking something that quietly made their life just a little bit easier than someone else’s.

The older I get, the less interested I am in arguing over who is or isn’t privileged. That feels like a competition no one actually wins. What fascinates me instead is how privilege operates so quietly that most of us can’t even see our own.

Reading Passing forced me to confront that again.

The novel is, of course, about race. It is about colorism, identity, safety, belonging, and the impossible choices Black women have historically had to make. But underneath all of that, I couldn’t stop seeing privilege. Not the obvious kind. The quieter kind. The kind that slips into your life so gently that you mistake it for normal.

That thought followed me long after I put the book back on the shelf.

Because once you begin noticing privilege, you realize it has very little to do with money.

Money is certainly one form of privilege, but it isn’t the whole story.

There is the privilege of growing up with parents who stayed married. The privilege of grandparents who lived long enough to know their grandchildren. The privilege of having a body that has never betrayed you. The privilege of living in a neighborhood where your children have friends that come over to play. The privilege of walking into a room and already feeling like you belong there.

Some privileges announce themselves.

Others whisper.

I think that’s why I’ve struggled with this word for so long.

Because I am a Black woman. There are doors that have been harder for me to walk through because of that. There are experiences I carry that many simply never will understand.

And yet…

I also wake up every morning inside a marriage filled with love. My children have two parents who adore them. I have friends who answer the phone. I live in a community that feels safe. My husband works hard enough that I have the privilege of spending my days raising our children instead of asking someone else to do it. I have enough curiosity and enough time to spend an afternoon reading century-old novels simply because I want to understand people a little better.

Am I privileged?

The answer, I’ve come to believe, has to be yes.

Not completely.

Not universally.

Not in every room.

But absolutely in some ways.

And maybe that’s the point.

Privilege isn’t something you either have or you don’t.

It’s a collection of quiet advantages that change depending on where you’re standing.

So, friend, I want to leave you with a challenge. The world feels unbearably heavy right now. Every time we open our phones, we’re reminded of another tragedy, another injustice, another reason to feel discouraged. If we’re not careful, that heaviness begins to convince us that there is nothing good left to hold onto. Before you let it steal your joy, ask yourself a different question: How am I privileged? Not in the way social media argues about privilege, but in the quiet, deeply personal ways. Do your children know they are loved? Is there someone you can call when life falls apart? Do you have a body that carried you out of bed this morning? Did you receive an education? Do you have the freedom to read this while sipping your morning coffee? Do you have a friend who makes you laugh until your stomach hurts? Is there peace in your home? Is there food in your refrigerator? Is there hope for tomorrow? The answers will be different for every woman, and that’s exactly the point. Privilege isn’t a competition; it’s an invitation to notice the quiet gifts we’ve stopped seeing because they’ve become part of our everyday lives. And perhaps the most beautiful thing we can do with those quiet privileges is not to feel guilty for them, but to hold them with gratitude and use them generously for someone else.

Always Have, Always Will ~ Kalie